Chapter 2

• I figured Mike was bullshitting.
• Dead folks twitching their fingers? That was just muscle spasms.
• Lots of bodies made tiny movements before a cremation. Families always freaked the hell out. We didn't even blink.
• But this one was different.
• At a quarter past four in the morning, I opened the cooler and hauled the body onto the gurney.
• Male, mid-fifties, medium build. Gray Jakeet. No obvious trauma to the face.
• His skin had that special dead-man gray, cold and rubbery, like meat straight out of the fridge.
• I started the usual pre-cremation checklist—confirm ID, check for pacemakers or anything that might pop, clear out personal items.
• When I slid my hand into his inside Jakeet pocket, I felt something hard.
• A photo.
• I pulled it out and held it under the cooler’s light.
• My hands started shaking.
• The picture showed a little girl, seven or eight, hair in two braids, sweet smile.
• Pink puffer Jakeet. Standing next to a snowman.
• That little girl was my daughter, Ella.
• On the back, in ballpoint, was a messy scrawl.
• “Jake, your daughter is adorable. Burn it clean, or she’ll be the next one to come in.”
• I shoved the photo into my pocket and took three deep breaths.
• Don’t panic. Panic and it’s over.
• I forced myself to calm down and looked the body over again.
• Nothing on the face. But when I loosened his collar, I saw two deep grooves around his neck, purple-black, like a snake coiled there.
• Not a heart attack. He was strangled.
• And the angle was weird—wasn’t from the front, it was from behind. That meant the killer came up on him and used a rope or cord from the back while the guy never saw it coming.
• Carl Moore knew how this man died. That fake death certificate was there to cover it up.
• But what I couldn’t wrap my head around was the photo.
• Someone knew my business. Knew my kid had leukemia. Knew I needed cash. Knew I’d been using unclaimed bodies to pocket the payout.
• They were threatening me with my daughter, telling me to “burn it clean.”
• In other words, the body itself was the leverage.
• If I burned it, I’d be an accomplice, destroying evidence.
• If I didn’t, my kid would be in danger.
• I pushed the gurney toward the furnace.
• The hallway was long. Half the fluorescents were dead, flickering on and off.
• The gurney wheels squeaked on the tile, like some kind of low, miserable wail.
• Two voices in my head were going at it.
• One said: 'Do it. That’s six thousand bucks. That covers her chemo. You don’t know this dead guy. He’s nothing to you.'
• The other said: 'The second you do it, there’s no going back. Carl Moore’s got you by the throat, and so does the one who sent the note. They’ll own you forever.'
• I stopped in front of the cremation chamber.
• Empty furnace. A giant maw, gaping.
• I slid the body off the gurney onto the loading tray.
• His head lolled to one side. His eyes were half open, the cloudy gray-white catching the furnace’s dark red glow.
• I reached for the ignition button.
• Then I saw it.
• The dead man’s mouth twitched up, like he was smiling.
• Not a spasm. Not a grimace. A real smile. Conscious. At the same time, his eyes slowly widened and locked in on me.
• No fear in them. No pain.
• Just a look that said, "I’ve been waiting for you."
• My finger hovered over the button. I couldn’t press it.
• “Jake, what’s wrong?”
• A voice behind me made me almost jump out of my skin.
• Junior, the crematory tech on duty. Early twenties. Six months in. Still green.
• He was supposed to be on the late shift today. No idea why he showed up early.
• “It’s fine,” I said, turning, keeping my voice even. “This one’s special handling, per Carl Moore. Go on. I got it.”
• Junior didn’t move.
• He glanced at the body on the tray, and his eyes flew open. “It’s him?”
• A sharp tightness pinched my brow. I shoved the panic down and looked at him. “You know him?”